Penance
by FantasiaWandering
Summary: Frisk's duties as Ambassador keep expanding as they grow older, but there is one important task that never changes. Frisk isn't just the Ambassador to humans and monsters, and there are times when they must give a voice to the voiceless so that everyone has a chance to heal.


After the conference, you have to change. The weight of your formal vestments is too great, and you need to get it off your shoulders. You're very careful as you zip them into the garment bag for safekeeping; the older you get, the more detail your parents put into them, since they're likely to last longer between growth spurts, and this set has a lot of fine brocade and embroidery. With a gentle touch, you run your hand over the Delta Rune emblazoned across the chest, lingering over the angel at the top of it. Like so many things in your life these days, it has a dual meaning now, and you give a quiet sigh as you draw the zipper over it and hang the vestments on a hook on the door. Somebody on Woshua's crew will eventually relocate them from the room that serves as your dressing room at the Embassy to your closet at home, and they'll be spotless by the time they get there, so you're not terribly worried about them.

Since the vestments are essentially a sleeveless, shapeless coat that hangs from your shoulders to your ankles, you could probably wear whatever you wanted under them. Toriel usually wears a dress, and Asgore a very nice fancy tunic and trousers when he's not wearing his armour, and you often alternate between both of those options. Today it was black leggings and boots under a long, loose white shirt, cinched at the waist with a belt of metal links that Undyne spotted during your last trip to the mall and insisted you buy right that second to complete your "fancy duds." She was right, of course. For all the hell she puts her own clothes through, she really has great taste in them, and she often knows exactly what you need when you're standing there desperately wishing for a stripey sweater store.

Today, though, even without the vestments overtop, these are too formal. You pull your diadem off, setting it in its special box, and change out of the rest of your clothes quickly. You opt for sneakers, loose cargo pants, a fitted tee Undyne found for you last year that says "TOUGH LOVE" over a graphic of a little heart with muscley arms and well-defined abs, and a loose flannel shirt over that. The weight of your hair on your back is bothering you today, so you gather it into a ponytail on top of your head. But you frown at your reflection. Something is still not right. Frustrated, you survey the room.

The basket Papyrus gave you still sits, untouched, on the dressing table. Ever the dutiful royal guard / brother / mascot, he insisted you have nourishment before the big press conference, and pressed the basket on you even though your stomach was too fluttery to eat any of its contents. He's been branching out lately under Mom's tutelage, and the cinnamon rolls inside have just a smidge of spaghetti in them. You pull back the red fabric covering them and pull one out, only shuddering a little bit as you chew thoughtfully.

You pause, turning back to the basket, and pull the red cloth from the baked goods. Shaking out the crumbs, you fold it into a long band, and knot it loosely over one shoulder. It wreaths you in the scent of cinnamon and sugar and tomato sauce. Then, you look back at the mirror.

It's you.

Sighing in relief, you finish off the cinnamon-and-spaghetti roll and head out of the room. Your royal duties might be done for the day, but the Ambassador is just punching in.

The scrum of reporters waiting in the courtyard gives you pause; the press release wasn't _that_ exciting, all things considered, and it's already finished. Before you have much time to worry about it, though, a wall of black and silver and magenta interposes itself between you and the reporters, and you have never been so happy to hear the " _DARLING!"_ that rings in your ears.

Mettaton slips an arm around your shoulders, but you're already straightening, lifting your hand to the reporters in a friendly wave as you flash a winning smile at them. "Well done, darling," Mettaton whispers, and you glance up at him in time to see his conspiratorial wink. "Good to see you haven't forgotten _everything_ since I've been gone." Raising his voice, he makes a shooing motion toward the scrum. "All right, lovely ladies and gentlepeople and variations thereupon, you've got your photos. The Ambassador is _very_ busy, but their secretary will be _thrilled_ to take any additional questions. Run along now. Thank you, beauties, and don't forget to visit the gift shop on your way out!"

"Mettaton," you groan as the stunned reporters leave, overwhelmed by the force of the ghost-robot's personality.

"Oh, hush, Frisk-darling. It's not as if the proceeds don't go to those little dears your Foundation helps."

"And referring all of those people to Kelly?"

Mettaton gives you a shrewd look. "If Kelly can't handle the pressure, she shouldn't have taken the job."

"Is that why she's not here?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, darling?" He bats his eyes innocently at you, which doesn't fool you for a second.

"You haven't been my press secretary for, like, five years now. Not since you got too busy with all your shows and the movies and stuff. This is the first press conference Kelly's missed since she took over your duties."

Throwing up his hands dramatically, Mettaton heaves a metallic sigh. "Caught me red-handed, darling. I may have _heavily_ suggested that Kelly let me have this one while I'm in town. For old times' sake." Turning his thousand-watt-smile on you, he links his arm through yours. "But admit it, darling, you miss me."

Laughing, you lean into him as guides you toward the doorway now cleared of reporters. "Okay, I admit it. Kelly is wonderful, but she can't clear a path quite like you can." For a moment, nostalgia makes your heart ache. You love your secretary, you really do, but she's far too conscious of your ambassadoriness to take your arm like this. Even when you were eleven, Mettaton used to hold your hand after one of these things, but after Kelly took over, she'd just walk close behind you. She'd never known the grubby, hungry, determined little kid you'd been when you'd faced off with Mettaton on the dance floor, and she never quite forgot that you were technically royalty. After the pressures of public speaking, it was nice to lean on someone else, just for a moment, and Mettaton was always ready. He knew how hard you studied for being a good ambassador - everything you knew about diction and presentation and deportment that hadn't come from Toriel was from him, and he loved himself enough to recognize every time you pulled one of his teachings out.

"So," you ask. "Did I do okay?"

"Well, of course you did beautifully, darling." He brushes his hair out of his eyes, and smiles benevolently down at you. "I know it was difficult to do this one on your own, without Their Majesties, but it was time, and our faith was _so_ justified."

You stop, halting Mettaton alongside you. "Wait, is _that_ why you just happened to be in town now?"

"Why of _course not,_ Frisk-darling! I was here visiting my beloved cousins! The fact that you just happened to have a _major performance milestone_ was purely a coincidence!"

You raise a skeptical brow. He sounds sincere, but he _is_ one of the most successful actors in the world, and you still vividly remember how _intensely_ he attended every school play you performed in. But you give in, and keep walking, content for now to just be grateful for the support.

"Thanks," you say quietly. "This… this stuff is important. I don't want to let anyone down. I'm getting the hang of the conferences, but I'm still never sure what to do when they corner me like that after."

Mettaton's expression softens as you talk, and when he answers, his voice is subdued, losing the ringing overtones until it's almost identical to the way he sounds when he's incorporeal. "Of course it's important, darling, and I assure you, you didn't let anyone down today. We're all proud of you. And I'm sure you would have done _just_ fine handling those reporters without my help. I just couldn't resist the chance to let them get a shot of the Embassy's two biggest stars, together again!"

You give a very Sans-like snort, and shake your head. "I don't think they care that much about me outside of official business."

But at that, Mettaton stops, turning to take both your hands in his. "I wouldn't say that, darling. You've always been a source of curiosity, but you were still a child. You're… what, fifteen now?" You nod, and he clucks his tongue. "The interest is only going to get stronger, sweetie. You don't need to be afraid, your family will _always_ be around you when you need them, but people are going to be _watching._ You need to be aware of that."

You stare at him, feeling sick. "But… I'm just…"

"You're just _you_. Yes. But darling, I meet a _lot_ of people in my line of work, and do you have any idea how many little boys and girls and variations thereupon want to be _you_ when they grow up? They want to make a line of dolls, now. With outfits." The expression on your face makes him laugh, and he drops your hands long enough to hug you. It should hurt, but most of Mettaton's fans want hugs when they meet him, so Alphys made some modifications to his exoskeleton to give it a soft, huggable exterior. "Don't look so much like I've just condemned you, darling. Little children wanting to learn how to help people get along is not a bad thing. And your fashion sense is… well, eclectic enough to keep the outfits coming for _years_." He reaches up to fluff your ponytail. "Not to mention the _hairstyles_. I swear, it gets curlier every time I see you."

You blush, touching it self-consciously. "I've been thinking about cutting it, like it was when I was little…" But you trail off at Mettaton's stricken expression, and his subsequent attempts to hide it make you burst out laughing.

"Ugh, you do love to torment me so!" He links his arm through yours again, towing you deeper down the hall. "It's _your_ hair, gorgeous, you do what you want. And I'm not saying you weren't an adorable little moppet." He heaves a long-suffering sigh as he looks at your ponytail. "But darling, the things I could _do_ with that glorious hair!"

"All right, all right," you say, shaking your head in fond exasperation. "I'll leave it a while longer. Some days, I like it long."

"And some days, you don't?"

You hesitate, and nod, finally. "Sometimes, it seems like I never know _what_ I want anymore…" Biting your lip, you look up at him. "Is that… is that weird?"

Mettaton throws back his head and laughs, wiping an oily tear from his eye. "Oh, _darling_. You're a human, and you're _fifteen_. Even without all the other complications you have to put up with being the ambassador, I'd be more worried if you _didn't_ feel that way." You're blushing again when he hugs you, but that doesn't stop you from returning the hug with enthusiasm. As much as you love and trust your family, none of them really _get_ humans the way Mettaton does, and though you have many human friends now, it still feels weird going to them for advice on how to _be_ one. But if Mettaton thinks you're doing okay…

"Thanks," you whisper.

He steps back, framing your face with his hands. "Any time, darling. I mean that. You are one of five people in the world who have my direct number. If you need me, you call, and I'll be there." He makes a face, and gestures at his body. "Even if I have to leave this glorious thing behind and reanimate that old box Alphys keeps at her lab out of nostalgia, I will be there."

That promise strikes deep, and your eyes widen. Mettaton stares back, stricken, and drops his hands to your shoulders. "Oh, darling, don't cry! It will make your eyes go absolutely _ghastly_ , and you have so much more to do today." He turns you to face the corridor and leans over your shoulder. "And I am _far_ too underdressed to go any further, so you won't have my beautiful face to distract anyone." That makes you snicker, as you are certain you were meant to, and he gives you a little push. "Go on, darling. I will go placate your adoring fans, while you go do your thing."

Glancing back, you give an affectionate wave, grinning as he blows you kisses in return. Then, you square your shoulders, and head into the Sanctuary.

* * *

Situated beneath a soaring glass dome, the Sanctuary is one of the stranger places in the Embassy, and most humans can't bear to stay here long. You think it has something to do with the overwhelming sense of presence when you step over the threshold into the series of rooms and corridors that surround the Sanctuary proper. It's not unlike the way you feel at the Big House. From what Kelly tells you, it makes most humans nervous to feel like something vast and unknown is watching them. You just like feeling that you're not alone.

You suppose it doesn't help that there's an unspoken rule people just _feel_ when they enter that formal wear is absolutely required. The are little rooms situated off the corridors that people use for changing. The rooms also contain little fountains splashing away over colourful mosaic tiles, and incense, and whatever else visitors feel they need to do in order to make themselves ready to enter the Sanctuary.

The only one who never needs to do anything else is you. You go in wearing whatever feels right at the time. But it's always been that way. The Sanctuary is as comfortable as home to you, and it wants you there just as you are.

It's not exactly quiet as your make your way through the corridors; there's a constant sound of splashing water, and birdsong, and usually quiet music from somewhere or other, though you've never found the source. It's just… still.

The corridors begin to curve as you near the heart of the Sanctuary, and your footsteps slow. The vast, round room of the Sanctuary lies just beyond these walls, and you stop to look at the stained glass windows set into the pale stone, illuminated from within by the light streaming through the dome. Each one depicts a stylized human figure, artistically framed in design and scrollwork by the icons favoured by each one. Each has a heart cut from a different colour of precious gem placed in the centre of the figure's chest.

After so long, you know them all by name, and you whisper a greeting to each as you pass.

Once the circuit is complete, you step up to the great vaulted doorway to the Sanctuary itself. There is no actual door - that was a very deliberate choice. The Sanctuary is and always will be for any with the desire and the will to make their way to the heart of this place. The doorway was enough, an archway of vines carved in stone, dripping with delicate flowers so lifelike that there are times you swear you see the stone move in the breeze that somehow always finds a way into the room.

Pausing on the threshold, you catch your breath as you peer through.

You were expecting Asgore. This is part of the tradition. The open space beneath the dome is one vast garden, and Asgore kneels at its centre. His back is to you, and he is clad in his formal vestments, cape and all. Not the armour, though. Not here. Never here.

Nor does he have his trident. Weapons are very uncomfortable to carry into the Sanctuary's heart. You remember once, a few months after the Embassy was established, when a lost, angry human found his way here with a knife. He'd come at you as you'd sat in the garden, looking up at him with your arms full of flowers. But the closer he got, the heavier the knife seemed to get, until he was forced to stop several feet away from you, weeping as the knife pinned his hand to the ground. You set the flowers down and crawled over to see if there was anything you could do so that he wasn't sad. Even when Undyne burst in with the rest of security a few minutes later, so furious that she was actually in her armour instead of the uniform the rest of the security guards wore, she wasn't carrying a spear. The Sanctuary didn't like violence, even from its own staff. She dragged the man off, still crying, and you waved and promised to continue the conversation later, certain you could could cheer him up. Then you picked up the knife and carried it carefully out of the garden.

That was how you'd learned that there was more than one unspoken rule of the Sanctuary that didn't apply to you.

No, the real surprise here is Toriel, standing next to Asgore. You knew she'd wanted to stay away from the conference to make sure you were truly independent, but you hadn't expected her to come here. The pretty metallic embroidery on her own vestments catch the light streaming down from the dome, making her look like she's clothed in stars. Slowly, you creep into the shadow of the doorway, not wanting to disturb them.

"Did you watch?" Asgore is asking.

"I did," Toriel answers, toying with a small basket. "I could not help it. But I watched on the television. Frisk did us very proud."

"I knew they would." Hesitating briefly, Asgore raises his head to look up at Toriel. "What did you think of the choices this year?"

Equally hesitant, Toriel reaches out a hand, but it falls to her side before it reaches him. Instead, she turns, and picks her way delicately through the garden to one of the alcoves along the wall.

There are seven in total. Each alcove is framed by elaborate stone carvings set around a fountain that splashes into a pool below. The particulars of the carvings vary by alcove, and many of them are overgrown by plants and flowers in a riot of colours. It is not that the gardens here are not maintained, but its caretakers are very particular about listening to what the gardens want.

In front of each alcove stands a raised base with a large stone bowl before it, and six of the seven bases are crowned with a statue. Each one is painstakingly lifelike, the features so carefully rendered in the marble that it would not have surprised you in the least should one of them ever blink, or laugh, or turn their head. They never did, though. They were always frozen. Always watching.

In the first year, you had added things to each statue. The only things not made of stone, they stood out in vivid colour against the white marble, and like so many of the rules in this place, you were the only one permitted to touch them. You did so surprisingly often. They were like old friends, and they seemed lonely if you left them alone for too long. The old tutu… the faded ribbon... the torn notebook… the battered old frying pan… On the days when you were particularly unsettled, you came here, and sometimes just a touch was enough to bring you calm and stillness again.

Toriel walks slowly to each of the statues in turn, reaching into her basket and pulling out a small butterscotch cupcake dusted with cinnamon for each of the bowls before the statues. Only when she is done does she return to Asgore, her expression fond as she regards the six stone faces.

"They are good choices," she says at last. "I think, perhaps, the best yet. Did Frisk make them?"

"Only the last," he says, and Toriel nods. That choice is always yours. "We consulted on all of them, but I… I chose what felt right."

"You are listening, then," Toriel says softly.

Asgore looks down at his hands, pressed to the earth, and his claws sink in a little. "I try. Truly, I try. I just wish…"

He stills as Toriel's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. You hold your breath, not wanting even that little sound to reach them. "I know," Toriel says. "Asgore, I… I cannot forget. I cannot ever forget. But… but I can see what is in your heart. You are changed, in many ways, and I want you to know that I am proud of what you have done." She looks up at the statues ringing the two of them, and smiles. "I do not think I am the only one who would approve of your choices."

He raises his head, and even from your hiding place, you can see the hope in his eyes. "Tori. Would you like to… to have tea with me?"

You and Asgore and Toriel have tea together all the time, especially during breaks at the Embassy and at the Big House, but that's clearly not what he means. Toriel knows it too. There is doubt in her eyes at first, but she inclines her head at last, and smiles. "I would." She runs her hand briefly over one of his horns before turning toward the door. "Good afternoon, Gorey."

Her back is to him, and she cannot see the way Asgore looks at her as she goes. Like she is the moon stepped down from the sky, and he the ocean tide drawn helplessly toward her. Your cheeks burning, you slip quickly out of the doorway before he can see you, leaning on the wall outside and wondering if anyone will ever look at you the way your father looks at your mother.

"Oh!" Toriel's exclamation is still respectfully subdued as she nearly walks into you. She takes one look at your face and opens her arms, and you fall into them gratefully, the last of your anxiety from the conference melting away as she draws you close and pets your hair. "Silly child. You were not really alone. I was right behind these walls the whole time."

You smile against her and let out a long breath. "I don't know why I was so nervous. I've done hundreds of press conferences before."

"But never without one of your family behind you. Growing up is frightening, my child. I understand that." She releases you, and rests her hand against your cheek. "But you must know that even if we are not always nearby, we are always _with_ you."

Even after all these years, you still can't help but lean into her touch. Things are not always perfect between you and Toriel these days, and you have started to disagree as you assume more responsibility at the Embassy and in your own life. But you don't think anything will ever truly come between you. Not after all you've been through. Moments like this just serve to remind you how desperately you love your Mom, and you tell her so.

She dips her nose to nuzzle the top of your head. "And I you, little one. I was very proud today. And not just of how you conducted yourself." She looks toward the Sanctuary with a wistful smile. "It is a good thing, what you and your father have built."

"It was mostly his idea," you remind her. "He wanted to do something."

"I know," she says, with a soft, rueful laugh. "Believe me, I know. But I should not keep you. He is waiting." Giving your cheek a final pat, she steps back. "Will you be home for dinner?"

"Absolutely," you say with a grin. "All I've had to eat today is one of Papyrus' cinnamon rolls."

She stares at you, aghast, and grabs a cupcake out of her basket, glaring expectantly until you finish it. It's not exactly a hardship - even the healthy vegetables that she's added to the batter just make it more delicious - and you can feel energy coursing through you as you lick the cinnamon from your fingers. Appeased, she smiles, and loops the handle of the basket over her arm. "There. That should do you until supper. Oh, and Frisk?" You'd been getting ready to go, but you pause to look at her expectantly. She looks suddenly flustered, and she smooths one ear over her shoulder. "Tell your father he is welcome, too."

You just grin at her in answer, and her blush deepens as she turns to go. Your steps are much lighter as you cross the threshold into the Sanctuary.

The sensation that permeates the rest of the building intensifies the moment your sneaker touches the earth, and the weight of the place settles over you like an old, warm blanket. The air smells of flowers, and water, and green, growing things, and you drink it deeply as you cross the gardens to where your father waits.

"Hey, Dad."

He looks up at you, beaming. "Howdy, Pumpkin! Your mom tells me it went real great today!"

"It did! I talked to all the recipients right before the conference, too." You reach for the hand he holds out to you, wrapping both of yours around it in your excitement. His fingers still dwarf yours, but he is very careful with his strength and with his claws as he folds them around your hands. "Well, with Hannan I signed over Skype, but it's the same thing."

Asgore laughs softly. "Still seems like magic that you can talk with your hands."

"Please, Dad. You know how terrible I am at magic." Aside from the most basic of fire spells, you'd never really picked much up. Sign language, on the other hand, had been easy in comparison, and really useful for communicating with monsters who had trouble either understanding or replicating human speech.

"Hmmm, well," he said. "We'll see." It's pretty much his standard answer, and it makes you roll your eyes, but you're too excited to be annoyed. "So everyone seemed happy with the awards?"

"Yeah. I think we did pretty great this year, Dad. This is going to make a huge difference to a lot of kids."

It was in your second year after Barrier Fall that you and Asgore established the Dreemurr Foundation. Originally, it was to help the families of the six souls whose statues stand around you now, but there was really only one family left. It shouldn't have surprised you as much as it did; you knew something of the circumstances that drove a child up the mountain, after all. But after seeing that family taken care of, it wasn't enough for Asgore. He wanted to do more.

So, together, you came up with the Dreemur Foundation. Each year, it awarded seven grants to human children. The Patience Award, for work with youth. The Integrity Award, for achievement in the arts. The Bravery Award, for exceptional heroism. The Perseverance Award, for academic achievement. The Kindness Award, for culinary and agricultural accomplishment. The Justice Award for, conflict resolution. And the Determination Award… though that one was yours, and yours alone to hand out, and you didn't always award one every year.

For a long time, it had been a struggle to get anyone to take you seriously. But now, as momentum built…. now you were making a very real difference in the lives of kids who really needed it.

Something in the room shifts, and Asgore feels it. He lets go of your hand, and you turn toward the seventh alcove, the one located directly across from the door. The only one without a statue. Slowly, you make your way to it, and you gather up the freshly-cut flowers that have been laid on the dais in front of the alcove before stepping up onto it.

You turn to where you father kneels before you, and when he is ready, he bows his head, waiting. There are six weapons surrounding him, and one person with the knowledge and the power to use all of them; it is a gesture of deepest trust and submission. Drawing a deep breath, you step down and begin your circuit around the room.

When you reach the statue of the little girl with the faded ribbon woven around her stone hair and the toy knife clutched in her hand, you pause, listening to something deep within you. Taking one of the flowers from the bundle in your arms, you let instinct guide you, and place the flower delicately in the statue's outstretched, empty hand.

Behind you, Asgore catches his breath.

You don't rush. This requires all your attention. Step by step, you make your way around the room, and at each statue, you reach out with a flower. The scholar… the little chef... the apron… the ballerina and the cowboy… you leave a flower in the hand of each.

Finally, only the boxer remains. It's there you pause the longest, your brow furrowing as you listen deeply. You are so close this time. You have never made it to five before. If only… If only… Your fingers tremble on the stem of the flower, and Asgore gives a soft, broken sound as the blossom drops into the bowl at the statue's feet.

Your arms now empty, you move back to the seventh alcove and climb back onto the dais there. Your heart aches for your father, but surely he cannot have forgotten the first year, when none of the statues held flowers by the end of it. You look down at Asgore, and he bows his head again. Some years, he gives long impassioned speeches pleading for forgiveness. Others, he says nothing and silently awaits his fate.

This year, his voice is so heavy with regret that the words seem dragged from him. "I'm… I'm _sorry_."

Two words, only, but they carry the weight of the world, and you close your eyes as they sink into you.

Not even you ever know what comes next. Some years are better than others. Healing is not always a straight climb; there are dips and valleys and bumps in the road. Casual words may bring anger and contempt, and emotions will shift and change. Some years bring silence. Some bring shouting and accusation. Some end in tears. All you can do is clear your mind, and listen, and let your instincts guide you.

It takes some time, but eventually, the answer rises from the core of your soul. You open your eyes again, and step down from the dais. Asgore flinches, but he doesn't move, waiting with his head bowed for his judgement. Not once does he look at the weapons held by the statues around him. Only when you stop before him does he look up, and he stares, uncomprehending, as you spread your arms.

Understanding blooms deep in his brown eyes, and you watch hope kindle and catch fire before wraps his arms around your waist and hugs you so fiercely that the breath leaves you in a whoosh. Still kneeling as he is, his head presses against your heart, which beats proud and strong as you hold him, gently stroking his hair.

He makes no sound, but you can feel his tears soaking through your shirt. You raise your gaze to the statue of the boy in the bandanna, his hands hidden by the thick gloves. Emotions are complicated things, you are coming to learn. You can be angry, unwilling to forgive someone… and still not wish to see them suffer. Perhaps, one day, those seeds of compassion will grow into forgiveness in truth. But for now, you whisper a quiet thanks. For now, this is enough.

Gradually, the expectant weight eases from you, and you breathe deeply as you settle well and truly into _yourself_ again. Asgore can feel the change, you're sure of it, but he's as reluctant to let go as you are.

"Hey, Dad?"

For a moment, it seems he's forgotten how to speak. His voice is raw as he answers you. "Yes, Pumpkin?"

"Mom wants to know if you want to come for dinner."

His breath catches, and it leaves him in a shudder. And then he, too, seems lighter as he hugs you even closer. "I think I'd like that."

It will be some time, you know, before he's finally ready to let go. Though it was his idea, penance takes its toll on him, and the truth has the power to cut deeply. But in this time and place, you are so much more than just Frisk, and as long as he kneels before you, his words are not just for you alone.

"I'm so sorry," he says again.

"We know," you answer, and smile down upon him.

After some time, you glance at your reflection in the shining glass dome overhead, but despite everything, it's still you. Satisfied, you bow your head and place a kiss between your father's horns. "I love you, Dad."

At long last, his arms ease free of you, and he rises to his feet. At his full height, he still towers above you, and there have been years where, in this place, it made you draw back. But this time, there's no instinct to do so, and with a look of relief and gratitude, he hugs you again as the folds of his cloak fall around you. "I love you, too, Frisk."

You take his great hand and lead him from the room, the shadows growing long as the sun slips toward the horizon. The Sanctuary brings solace and ease to any who seek it out within these walls, and with each year that you have stood before Asgore in judgement, that feeling has only grown stronger. Behind you, the six statues return to their silent vigil over the gardens, but in the air, there is only stillness, and peace, and welcome for all those who are lost.


End file.
